


The Loneliest Number (M7-97)

by BeeBeMe



Series: The Wasteland's a Rough Place (Fallout Whumptober 2020) [4]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Emotional Whump, Isolation, Whump, Whumptober 2020, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:28:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26898196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeeBeMe/pseuds/BeeBeMe
Summary: There’s no one around now. The only person that sees him cry - his shuddering shoulders, the ragged intakes of breath that he doesn’t need - is himself. There’s no one to trick, no one to betray. The Institute failed - he was alone.Blind Betrayal broke Danse in more ways than he'd like to admit.
Series: The Wasteland's a Rough Place (Fallout Whumptober 2020) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951108
Kudos: 8





	The Loneliest Number (M7-97)

**Author's Note:**

> Wooo! Written for Whumptober 2020, day 8: Where Did Everybody Go? Enjoy! >:D

_“I need to be the example, not the exception.”_

The words come out of his mouth, but he’s not really listening. He believes them with everything he has, of course, but they’re simply the right things to say. Recorded, rehearsed.

...Was he programmed to say these things? Were the words really his own?

He couldn’t be sure anymore. He couldn’t trust anything

Least of all himself.

Unfortunately, that’s exactly what he’s left with. The Elder’s vertibird roars into the sky (Will he ever get to ride in one of those again? To feel the wind in his hair and every beat of the propellers in his chest? Did he even like it as much as he thought he had? It wasn’t real - he had to keep on reminding himself. Nothing was real, least of all him-)

He kept getting distracted.

Elder Maxson left. Maggie- no, Knight Barnes. He lost the right to call her that. He’d already betrayed her enough. Knight Barnes stayed. He wished she hadn’t. She kept on looking at Danse with those blue eyes full of pity. What she thought of him, he didn’t want to think about. Knight Barnes was a good soldier, someone that the Brotherhood needed. He respected her and her opinions, even if they differed - drastically so at times. He trusted her. He was her ally.

A friend - if machines can even have those. Danse doesn't think that they can.

She doesn't stop staring, doesn't stop letting her hand linger on his shoulder. At first, she tries to talk. Danse can’t muster the words to respond. There’s cotton in his ears, sand in his mouth. An irrational part of him wonders if only static would come out if he tried to speak. He’d heard synths bleat out muddled, tinny cries as they slowly bleed coolant. He wasn’t bleeding (He bled red, right? When was the last time he got hurt? Was it red then? God, he wants to check so _badly-_ )

No. A distraction, once again. Besides, hurting himself would only upset Knight Pendleton. She’d been through enough already. 

Eventually, she stopped trying to talk. The concrete halls of Listening Post Bravo were silent - almost painfully so. The skeleton in the chair, slumped over the desk. He sat on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest and back pressed to the wall. A dull ache formed in his nose from how hard he was pressing it into his kneecaps. The pain wasn’t real - just ones and zeros trying to prevent damage to this worthless body.

The Institute can’t use him if he’s dead.

For a long moment, charged by defiance and rage, he was compelled to grab the rifle from across the room and deprive the Institute of their latest tool.

...Knight Barnes was still here, he reasoned. That was why he didn’t do it - nothing more, nothing less.

The Knight in question sat across from him, legs crossed and back slouched. If he looked up, he could see her aprising gase alight with concern. Concern that he didn’t deserve, not that she’d agree. 

Didn’t she know that if their roles had been reversed, he would have shot her? It would have hurt, but he would have done it.

Perhaps he should tell her. Maybe that would be enough to make her pull the trigger and absolve her of the guilt. She could go back (home) to the Prydwen, keep on doing good. She’d be free.

“I have to go, Danse.” Her voice is so far off, muffled. She says something about supplies, about checking in with the Minutemen. He isn’t listening. He should be happy. She shouldn’t be here, stuck underground with a synth. Any moment now, some man in a white lab coat miles away could flick a switch and turn him into a monster - one that she would be trapped with. 

The truth of the matter is, Danse is a selfish ~~man, person, soul~~... Danse is selfish. He doesn't want her to go. He doesn’t want to be alone. Ever since he could remember (Were any of those memories true? Did they really happen? _He doesn’t know._ ) he’d never been alone. There was Cutler in Rivet City and during those early days in the Brotherhood. His fellow soldiers ever since then. The Prydwen wasn’t a large airship - he was lucky to go two steps without tripping over someone. How he could ever be irritated with that - with the closeness, with the feeling of never being alone - he doesn’t know. 

What a fool.

He lets her go, promises her that he wouldn’t do anything stupid, and watches her leave.

Not long after, it starts to rain.

It wasn’t a deluge, no radstorm that would force Knight Barnes to come back. Just enough to be noticeable. Fitting, he supposed. 

The dampness and chill creep across the cold concrete floor, the rain reminds him of how thirsty he feels. It’s all programming, he has to remind himself. He isn’t cold, he can’t _be_ cold. It’s nothing more than a mindless reaction to his surroundings. Machines don’t need water. Machines don’t want the feeling of a shoulder against their own. Machines don’t miss their little room on a big airship so much that it makes them feel sick. Machines…

The first tear slips down his cheek and off of his chin.

Machines don’t cry.

Somehow, the fact that he _is_ crying only makes him angry. 

It’s illogical. It’s _cruel._ Just one more human reminder of how _inhuman_ he truly is. Why would they program a machine to cry? Just to fit in with whatever poor community had accepted him? He wasn’t crying because he was sad ~~machines can’t feel sad, damn it~~ but simply because it’s what he was programmed to do. A visceral, underhanded ploy to put those around him at ease.

There’s no one around now. The only person that sees him cry - his shuddering shoulders, the ragged intakes of breath that he doesn’t need - is himself. There’s no one to trick, no one to betray. The Institute failed - he was alone. 

A smug sense of satisfaction - small and insignificant within the storm of fear and anger in his chest - settles against his ribs. He hoped that they could see just how much of a mistake they’ve made. He hopes they regret every action that led him here. Useless and alone, hated by the people he loves. Loved. 

Machines can’t love.

Machines can’t -

A ragged sob cuts through the gentle pattering of rain and echoes through the empty concrete halls. He hates himself for it, but he can’t keep it back any longer.

If there’s one good thing about being alone, at least no one can see him be so weak.

Not that it matters anymore. Nothing matters anymore.

He is alone - in every sense of the word, and perhaps that is for the better.

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all feedback is cherished! Stay safe fellas!


End file.
